Oh bollocks! I love saying that. It’s sort of cathartic. The sharp intake of breath, the autonomic gusto. “Bollox” … in either spelling, is a lovely phrase, especially from women of a certain age. It’s funnier!
On this occasion I came upon a Neanderthal. A semi-magnificent, living and breathing, exemplar of the suite. Love him!
How I managed to hold my breath, I don’t know! But I did. On this occasion, for the benefit of a collection of little people. I found myself in the unenviable role of adjudicator, of well meaning umpire!
Whereas I wanted to say, “bend over little man I’ve a friend who loves you” – not a phrase, as my mother would say, “to be cast windward” amidst 60 kids – especially not from one of the gentle generation – I smiled.
Anyway, a small ignominious little man continued to avail me of his beauteous insights, construed in the lonely depths of his dark miniscule, corner of the world. Perhaps, a less generous observer may have interpreted an insult or two.
I held back, stayed calm, stood still and listened intently as he blathered forth a tirade of incongruities. I simply oused a sense of love albeit, potentially, inauthentic.
I suggested he may have chosen to help, to contribute, rather than just complain. But while inadvertently articulating the depths of the heartfelt ineptitude he excruciatingly felt with his own life, (and the desire to live again through the sporting endeavours of his children), my insight seemed somewhat inappropriate.
I was trying desperately not to remove the last morsel of his delicately balanced ego when … one of the kids said … “Cheer up you old farts, it’s just a game of rugby”.